


Lover, Come Back To Me

by TellMeNoAgain



Series: Roaring Hot [3]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1920s, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Noir, Dark Harley, Dark Tony, Dubious Consent, Everyone Is Poly Because Avengers, F/M, M/M, Mental Instability, Mob Boss Tony Stark, Mob-Type Violence, Multi, Period Typical Attitudes, Polyamory, dark bucky
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-07
Updated: 2020-01-10
Packaged: 2021-02-25 16:55:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22159486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TellMeNoAgain/pseuds/TellMeNoAgain
Summary: Part 3 of the "Tony Stark is an insane 1920's Mob Boss and there's sex everywhere" fic, which, okay, SOME OF YOU ARE ASKING FOR MORE.  I'll write more as long as you ask for it, ya crazy mooks.Tony sure did miss his Harleycat while he was out of town on his quiet vacation.  It's good to be home.
Relationships: Clint Barton/Natasha Romanov, Harley Keener/Bucky, Harley Keener/Steve Rogers, Harley Keener/Tony Stark, James "Bucky" Barnes/Peter Parker, James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers, Natasha Romanov/Tony Stark, Pepper Potts/Tony Stark, Peter Parker/Steve Rogers, Peter Parker/Tony Stark
Series: Roaring Hot [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591804
Comments: 64
Kudos: 366





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'd by the amazing mindwiped and jf4m, THANK YOU SO SO SO MUCH. I'm sorry if you now need to clean up your soul. I'll... I'll pay for the cleaning, just get me the receipts.
> 
> If you've read darkfic before, proceed, mine is pretty tame so far (later chapters may get worse).
> 
> If you HAVEN'T read darkfic, let's have a quick chat about the genre. Darkfics are full of dubious consent, even abuse. This one will skirt the edges of that second option. There will be dubiously consentful sex, which you will be able to interpret either direction, your choice. There will be period-appropriate racism, sexism, all kinds of -ism. There will be prostitution and drugs and a bunch of violence, including strong corporal punishment and what looks like domestic abuse to me. It's hard to say, because the victim sure seems fine with it, but it also might be some heavy gaslighting. Because I know underage squicks so many people, Peter will be of age when the sex starts, but that doesn't mean that the characters aren't going to mess with him (and turning 18 is not a magic wand for sexual relationships to be healthy). Darkfic is fun because it's not reality and it can let you have some nervous experiences without actually being endangered. Please proceed with your comfort level. You can email me at tellmenoagainplease@gmail.com if you want to check in about specific triggers.

Peter opens the door to their room and starts pulling off the tie, the _choke_ _chain_ , he can’t believe he’ll have to wear one every night just to eat dinner. It had been fun, though, he concedes, everyone all together in one place, Mr. Stark at the head of the table, Pepper at the foot, and everyone else scattered around. He’d been stuck by Harley, down by Pepper at the foot. She’d grilled Harley on his reading, on his arithmetic, and watching the other man explain about _summer break_ to her was an education in wiggling out of trouble. She’d grilled Peter a little, too, but his answers were more satisfactory, by the way she hadn’t set him to _reciting multiplication tables_. He shakes his head, chuckling at that memory. The table had been raucous and loud, and Peter had almost forgotten to eat several times, he’d laughed so hard at all the joking and joshing.

After dinner, she’d escorted him to her parlor, just him, Happy following because apparently he shadowed her like Clint could be found seven steps from Natasha. She’d talked with him about appointments in the coming week, about wardrobe and  _ elocution _ , about learning to dance. He was amenable to all of it, even the parts where she said he needed to work on how he eats, what spoon he uses. Then she’d talked books, and what he knew about geography, and he’d had to admit most of his geography came from the papers. She’d conceded that wasn’t the worst education but said she’d engage a tutor just to make sure he was never caught out. She was nice to him the whole time, her eyes kind and cheerful, and when she dismissed him to head upstairs, reminding him that Harley and Tony would be out until late, he was floating. She’d kissed his cheek and told him she was  _ so happy _ to have another angel on the team. Pepper Stark, happy about  _ him _ .

Peter shakes his head, smiling what he knows is a goofball smile.

It’s late, late enough that Pepper had wished him  _ sweet dreams _ when she was done gabbing. He knows enough about dropping hints and dropping orders to take the suggestion. His feet still need a soak, the blisters are good enough for slippers but not gone yet, and he’s gotten kind of used to having the full dip at night, so he strips off in the bathroom while he runs the water. Now that he’s thinking of them, they  _ ache _ , he aches  _ everywhere _ , his body got used to the soft being-carried-around life so fast. 

He takes his time, he has nothing but time, these days, and his fingers are prunes when he finally pulls himself out. Pepper had said, being an adopted angel is for  _ life _ , so he should get used to all this as fast as possible, and he’s decided to start trying. She’d talked so much, it had been so good to have someone around who wasn’t full of silences, making Peter feel awkward just for wanting to know things. She’d explained that the angel side of the family was for keeping up appearances, for making sure the devil side didn’t get too caught up, making sure they remembered how to get on and be normal. “We keep the homefire burning, we keep the social calendar churning, make sure the car gets its oil changed and they go to baseball games and know it’s Christmas,” and he’d nodded, because he doesn’t know anything about gun manufacturing or rum-running, but he’s always wanted to be a part of Christmas and ball games. She’d smiled at him, then, and tucked him under her arm for a kind of hug, and said, “It’s going to be so fun to have an heir just for me, Peter, it’s a big empire and Harley’s only really interested in half.

Peter can see that, having spent a week with the other man. He slips on a pair of Harley’s pajamas, and that had been something Pepper had said they’d  _ address _ tomorrow, too, getting him clothes just for him. Peter shakes his head, just thinking of having his own ball glove, having so many pairs of shoes he’d have to know which one matched what kind of outfit, and none of them even scuffed, much less worn through.

He looks at the big bed, where he’s spent most nights, tucked in next to Harley, being checked on by Natasha or Clint or Steve or Bucky during their rounds, but remembers Mr. Stark saying  _ wouldn’t want to get confused _ and heads for the bottom bunk, with all the curtains. The covers are just as thin and light, as he slips under them, and the gas lightswitch is right in the center of the wall, in easy reach. He turns it down, but not off, because they’ll be home at some point, Mr. Stark and Harley. He closes his eyes, and when that doesn’t work after a while, he closes the curtains and tries again.

~~~

He’s woken up by the door banging open, startled, and then the sound of someone shushing someone else, Harley’s loud whisper saying, “Angel, angel’s sleepin’ Mr. Stark.”

Mr. Stark chuckles, but it’s quieter. “Let ‘im, been missing  _ you _ , hellcat.” His voice is just slightly slurred, and their footsteps are janky on the plush carpets, like they’re getting in each other’s way. “Watching them gams fly, thinkin’ what I’d do, we got back here.”

“Round Two,” agrees Harley. “Let me take care of you, Mr. Stark. Haven’t, needed to,  _ hate _ you gone.”

Mr. Stark chuckles again, and then there’s the sound of zippers being unzipped, clothes dropping to the ground, shoes being kicked off. There’s other sounds, too, sounds Peter recognizes from the car-ride, sounds of flesh touch flesh, skin sliding across skin, the wet sounds of mouths, little pants and grunts and groans.

“Gonna have to kick him down t’ Steve and Bucky one night,” mutters Mr. Stark, “want my hellcat yowling. But y’ll be so quiet for me tonight, let me have what I want, won’t wake the angel, will you, Harleycat?”

“You got it, bossman,” agrees Harley, in a breathy tone. Peter thinks of  _ want my hellcat yowling _ and swallows hard. He’s not twitching, not letting them know he’s lying here, awake, and he knows there’s something distinctly unangelic about that, he should get out, he should go down to the library or something, but he can’t, he’s frozen here on this bottom bunk, surrounded by curtains, while all the noises happen out there.

Mr. Stark grunts and Harley giggles a little, quietly, and then Mr. Stark mumbles, “God, hellcat, you been picking up tricks? Your  _ tongue _ , kid, yeah, like that, lap it up. Good kitty.” Peter swallows, remembering the car ride, remembering Steve’s head falling back, eyes fluttering shut, his hand gripping the seat, grunting. 

“Fuck, missed this, no one,” Mr. Stark gasps, “no one takes care of me like you do, Harleycat.” There’s a wet chuckle of agreement, which makes Mr. Stark grunt again. Peter shifts, he can feel how hard he is, this is, this is worse than any dream he’s ever had, waking up with wet drawers. He can’t, what if they hear him, what if he makes a noise and they come to  _ check _ ?

Mr. Stark grunts, “Shit, you gonna teach your new _ baby brother _ some of these tricks, Harleycat? Couldn’t- couldn’t handle two of you,  _ fuck kid _ , could I? Can barely handle one,” he chuckles. “All right, enough, you keep up w’  _ that _ , I’m not going t’ make it t’ the main event and I  _ need _ that. Missed you so much, been dreaming about it in m’ sleep.”

Harley makes a breathy noise, somewhere between a pant and a whine, and Mr. Stark chuckles, rich and deep. “On the bed, cat, gonna pitch in.” The bed creaks, a heavy sound Peter has heard this week as Harley climbs in or out. There’s a clink, something being set down on the side table, and then a wet noise, Mr. Stark chuckling again.

Harley hisses, “God, Mr. Stark, been thinkin’ about it, ‘bout all the things you c’n do t’us, make us do f’r  _ you _ , matched set, bet I c’n fuck him while you’re hilt deep in  _ me _ . Bet he’ll let me, such a fuckin’ angel, those big eyes, should see him well up and cry, Mr. Stark, them  _ blushes _ .” He’s talking so much, Peter wonders what they’re doing, because they’re definitely not kissing, Harley’s keeping up a steady stream of just-above-a-whisper talk  _ about Peter _ . Peter’s gasping as quietly as he can, and his hand slides down between his legs, rubbing because he  _ aches _ . Rubbing doesn’t seem to make it ache less, but it does feel so good. 

There’s another wet sound, and then Harley grunts, “F-fuck, Mr. Stark, missed this-” he gasps, and grunts, and the bed creaks. “Missed you, please, God,  _ hurry _ .” 

Mr. Stark chuckles and says, “So tight, hellcat, you gotta keep quiet, gonna, so much sinning to do, gotta get you stretched for it.” There’s wet noises then, pants and little grunts, groans from Harley, his voice easy to identify against the bass rumble of Mr. Stark’s darker, deeper voice. Peter rubs, it feels so good, and thinks about what needs  _ stretching _ on Harley, for Mr. Stark to do some  _ sinning _ . It’s not his mouth, thinks Peter. His tricky tongue hadn’t needed any stretching for Steve, and Peter remembers the sight of the tent in Steve’s pajama pants the other morning and swallows, biting his lip. Steve’s definitely bigger than Peter, he thinks, and then gasps a little, letting his jaw drop a little wider so there’s no sound, no sound as he pants, as his hand rubs, thinking of Harley  _ teaching _ him some of those tongue tricks.

There’s another sound of the bed creaking, and then Harley’s breathing shatters into pants and moans and grunts, and Mr. Stark is grunting, too. “Fuck, cat,” he growls, at one point, “feel so good, so good, sinful, sweet fuck, so sinful.” Harley moans a little less quietly and Mr. Stark admonishes, “Quiet, cat, don’t want to wake the  _ baby _ .”

“Fuck that,” hisses Harley, and the bed is creaking again, soft little steady noises that match the words Harley is hissing, Peter can barely make out the words, but they have his hand moving in unconscious imitation of the rhythm. “Fuck that, he can, he can get up here, kiss you, blush, cry for you, fuck, wake him up, you can dirty him up, dirty his mouth, show you how I teach, uh, teach him tricks, fuck, Mr. Stark.”

Peter can’t drop his jaw any further open, make himself any more silent, so he raises his arm and bites down, shifting as silently as he can in the bed to make the position possible, lying half on his stomach, hand moving against the satin without making, he hopes, too much noise, because he’s _not_ _stopping_. They’re talking about him, while _they_ , while _Mr_. _Stark_ , and Peter bites his arm, breathing as quietly as he can, steady, through his nose. They probably can’t hear anything over their own grunts and pants and whimpers, Peter reassures himself, and rubs. He can feel something cresting, deep in his stomach, rising up, and it makes him rub his cheek against his arm.

There’s a quiet cry from the bed, and Mr. Stark responds, roughly, “You missed it, huh, that bad? That bad, you missed it, missed me? Three weeks is a long time, hellcat, you think you can show me how much you missed me?”

Harley is hissing in agreement, the bed creaking faster now, and Peter’s hand speeds up, too. He feels a pull, a deep pull, and then his hips stutter forward into his hand, pushing hard, and he bites down on his arm, silent, as wet warmth spills out into his hand. He’s never, it’s happened, but he’s never, and he blushes hard, body shaking, panting as quietly as he can.

“C’mon, cat, gimme cream,” pants Mr. Stark from the bed, “Show me how much you’ve missed me. Know you can do it, only dick I ever met could cream for me like this.”

“Mr. Stark,” gasps Harley, and then it turns into a litany of gasps, “Mr. Stark, Mr. Stark,” he repeats, in rhythm to the bed creaking, Mr. Stark’s quiet grunts.

The steady rhythm falls apart, and then Mr. Stark groans, quiet and full. After a second, there’s the sound of the bed shifting, and then Mr. Stark chuckles, “Sorry, kid, here, let me, had to, couldn’t wait. I’ll cream you some other time, still want it, couldn’t wait.”

“Fuck,” yelps Harley, and then there’s the sound of flesh smacking flesh and Mr. Stark growling, low and dangerous, “Quiet, cat, we’re not waking the baby, remember?”

Peter squirms, because he’s awake, he’s so awake, and then realizes there’s no way he can fall asleep like this, covered in his own mess, and they’re making maybe enough noise, enough noise he can slip his pants down. He wiggles, and the bunk bed is so solid, it doesn’t creak, doesn’t move, unlike the bed they’re in, it’s still making little noises, in time with Harley’s grunts and moans, Mr. Stark’s chuckles. He pulls off the pants and drawers, carefully, and wipes himself down with the drawers, slides them up and over to the side next to the wall, slips back into the pants as best he can, feet fluttering tiny little kicks, sliding them up his hips and feeling odd as the silk skims over his dick.

“Got yourself some whiskey dick, hellcat?” says Mr. Stark in a darkly amused tone.

Harley groans, and then whimpers as Mr. Stark chuckles again, “Could keep you here, on edge, all night ‘til it wears off a little, sun shines up, your baby brother wakes up, all innocent and pure, twitches back them curtains and watches you fall apart, hmm, hellcat?”

Harley moans again and Peter scrubs his cheek against the pillow, thinking about doing more _watching_.

“Or you can push through it, gimme the cream I want, Harleycat,” offers Mr. Stark.

“T-tryin’,” gasps Harley, and his voice is so aching, Peter marvels.

“Or maybe the problem is I’m asking, hellcat, and you don’t understand unless you’re  _ told _ ,” growls Mr. Stark. “Here I thought, first night back, you might like a little nice, missed me so much, but that’s not what you  _ missed _ , is it, alleycat?”

Harley grunts, and there’s a quick sound of skin on skin, and Harley’s breathing goes weird, like he’s choking. “Not enough sinning in what we already did, is there, alleycat, you need this, too,  _ asking _ for it,” grunts Mr. Stark, and there’s a strangled moan from Harley.

Mr. Stark chuckles lightly, murmuring just louder than Harley’s strange breathing, “Yeah, Steve talks about what he does to you, how it stirs him up, but Natasha and Clint got your number, same as I do. We know what stirs _you_ up, all the gutters you need to be dragged through, cat. Hold still,” and the last is loud enough Peter jumps. “Shhh, don’t you dare wake up that sweet sleeping baby, can’t have him seeing _this,_ Harleycat, you hold still, you _take_ _this,_ quiet like.”

Harley begins spluttering, and the creaks are faster, without any rhythm Peter can identify, until suddenly there’s a little whine-cough-whine and Mr. Stark chuckles again, “Good cat, nice and quiet, time for yowling another night, when the baby’s not lying there sleeping so  _ innocent _ .” Harley’s gasping, his voice sounding wet and raw, somehow, jagged, but then he’s giggling quietly, too, and gasping out, “Fuck,  _ missed _ you.”

“I know,” Mr. Stark tells him, his voice so fond and proud Peter’s throat closes. “All right, up, pad over, grab a scrubcloth, get you cleaned up.”

“Stay?” Asks Harley, his voice tentative and uncertain.

There’s a long pause before Mr. Stark tells him, “Yeah, sure, but don’t think it’s gonna be a new habit, hellcat. Just missed you, got the girls to take care of, too.”

“Yeah,” Harley says, and the bed groans, almost covering the sound of him saying, “I know the score, just missed you, that’s all.”

Peter waits, and hears the faucet run, a drawer open and close, the toilet flush. He hears Harley’s footstep pad across the tile, the thick carpet, and Mr. Stark whispers, “Thanks, hellcat.”

There’s a wet splat noise, and Harley murmurs, “I’ll get it in th’morning. T’tired now.”

Mr. Stark grumbles agreement and then the bed creaks and he hisses, “Shh. Night, cat, go down easy.”

“Night, Mr. Stark,” yawns Harley.

They’re silent, then, and Peter strains to hear their breathing until his own evens out.


	2. Chapter 2

The curtains twitch back, and light hits Peter directly across the eyes, waking him and making him scrunch them shut.

“Wake up, baby boy,” teases Mr. Stark, “got some paperwork to sign, you won’t want to miss it.”

Peter opens his eyes a slit and looks up at the other man, who’s dressed in rumpled slacks and an undershirt, sporting a night’s crop of new whiskers on his face. “Coffee?” He croaks, hopefully.

Mr. Stark laughs and says, “Sent Karen for the tray, Bucky or Steve’ll be up with it, have them make it up for you, but you gotta get up, angel.”

“Shut up,” growls Harley, “go away, my  _ head.” _

Mr. Stark laughs and shouts back, “Don’t play with the big dogs if you can’t handle the bite, Harleycat. You got me the gift, don’t even want to see it made legal? Judge’ll be here in an hour.” 

Harley grumbles, “So wake me in fifty,” and throws a pillow over his head.

Peter watches Mr. Stark’s quick hands tie back all the curtains and shifts a moment too late towards the  _ drawers,  _ rolled up and shoved against the wall, but clearly visible as the curtains pull back. Mr. Stark frowns at them, picking them up,  _ looking _ , before slotting a glance towards Peter, who is biting his lip and blushing as he watches the frown slide sideways into a gleaming smile full of  _ knowledge _ . “Oh, baby,” teases Mr. Stark, dropping the drawers on the floor to sit down next to Peter on the bunk bed, “did we wake up and have a good dream last night? Something just a little sinful?” His smile is teasing and playful but his eyes  _ know,  _ and Peter’s skin is stretched and on fire.

Mr. Stark rubs a possessive thumb across Peter’s lips, knocking the bottom one out of his teeth as he informs Peter, “Gonna have so much fun with all these blushes, angel. Harley filled my ear last night, telling me how  _ good _ you are, how good you’ll try to be for me, and I believe it.”

Peter nods, remembering Bucky’s thumb, remembering that shameful feeling, the tears tracking down his face. Mr. Stark’s smile broadens and he says, “Gonna regret telling Hellcat I’d wait. Shoulda set 4th of July for the fireworks, instead.”

Peter nods, because he’s not kidnapped anymore, he’s  _ trapped _ , trapped by the thumb, rubbing circles around his lips, not even trying to press in. The fourth is just days, a week, away. It does something, thinking of Mr. Stark wanting to do- whatever he’s waiting to do- but being impatient to do it with  _ Peter _ .

“Good angelbaby,” hisses Mr. Stark, but then he twitches and stands, gesturing impatiently for Peter to get up with him. “Let’s go, you got morning shift, never had an heir for this part, Harley can’t keep up.”

Harley mumbles again, “Get  _ out.” _

Mr. Stark laughs, and walks over to the door on the left side of the room. Peter’s never seen it used, he thinks, suddenly, but he follows Mr. Stark curiously. They slide through it, into a bathroom done in pinks and golds, and through that into a red and gold bedroom, even more ornate than Harley’s. Pepper is sitting, dressed for the day in a sleek white number with lace accents, sipping coffee, Natasha sitting beside her in a brown skirtset. They’ve got the morning papers splayed out in front of them, and they both look up at Mr. Stark’s entrance and smile. Pepper’s smile stretches to cover Peter, too, he notes.

“Ah, Happy, good,” says Mr. Stark. “Get the kid a coffee, hear he takes his as sweet as Hellcat. Peter, go help them dig through all that dirt, find me some gems for the Empire. I’m having a shower and a shave, be ready in fifteen. Tray’s already ordered?” Happy leaves, shaking his head a little.

“Yes, Tony,” says Natasha fondly. Peter goggles, because it’s the first time he’s heard her even sounding  _ civil _ . Pepper pats the couch next to her as Mr. Stark whistles his way into the bathroom, leaving the door open behind himself. Pepper hands him the business section and directs him, “Tell me if you see anything worth mentioning.”

Peter nods, opening to page three, because nothing on the first two pages is likely to be a gem that Mr. Stark can use. Natasha snorts.

The tray has arrived, with the news that the judge has been detained and will now arrive shortly before noon, which causes Pepper to fidget and glance at the bathroom and Natasha to sigh and pour two cups of tea, handing one to Pepper. The women seem at ease with each other, thinks Peter, much more at ease that he’d ever expected them to be. He tries not to feel itchy, like that’s weird and dangerous, the two women sitting side-by-side and comfortable. Why would that be weird? People can be friends. He turns his attention to the task given to him by Mrs. Stark. 

Peter is deep in page seven when he makes a sudden noise of interest and asks, “Mr. Stark use any automation in any of his gun factories?”

He looks up at the silence to find both women have lowered their papers and are staring at him. “Automation? Mr. Ford uses it? One fella puts on one piece, passes the car, next fella puts on the next piece?”

“Yes,” says Natasha slowly, “I believe, with the more standardized weapons, the complex multi-actions, he does.”

“Only, the Gilbreths just moved to Jersey and are setting up shop,” Peter says with excitement. They continue to stare at him, so he goes on in a much more hesitant tone, “The Gilbreths? Frank, his wife Lillian? They’re the efficiency nuts, they done a whole spread on them this spring, how they have all them kids and Frank fixes factories, writes up ways of doing things faster, making better use of time, that kind of stuff? If they just got out here, it’d be a cinch to grab ‘em before they get too busy and have them take a look around, Ford swears they saved him $100 an hour.”

Pepper tilts her head and purses her lips. “They don’t run in my circles, I don’t know those names. But that sounds interesting.”

“Lucrative,” agrees Natasha. “Worth looking into.” She slants Peter a glance full of cautious approval and takes a sip of her tea. “Your side, not mine,” she tells Pepper obliquely.

“I’ll make a note,” Pepper says, “We’ve got a management meeting Monday morning. Peter, if I give you time tomorrow afternoon, can you help me bring together a pitch for it?”

“A what?” asks Peter, panicking. He’d just meant to mention the idea to Pepper, she’d asked him to look for things worth mentioning.

“Oh, I’ll call over to Henry, get the real facts and figures, but this pitch should come from you, Peter,” says Pepper firmly. “Shake up the managers, let them know he’s got himself a daytime heir, and one who can play connect the dots as well as they can.”

“Or better,” grunts Natasha, and the women share a sardonic look. 

“I-I-” says Peter, because he doesn’t want to talk to managers, he doesn’t want Pepper to call  _ Henry Ford _ , he doesn’t want any of this, he just wanted to say something smart and interesting to Pepper Stark, that’s all. He just wanted her and Natasha to be impressed that he  _ knew _ something.

“He’ll do it,” calls Mr. Stark from the bathroom, and Peter notes his eavesdropping range is far wider than Peter expected,  _ good to know _ . He steps out, towel slung low, and points a finger at Peter, crossing to a dresser on the near wall. “He’ll do it. And they’ll come. You go ahead and call up Ford, get those numbers, Pep, but I like the idea.” He drops the towel casually over a chair while walking to open a drawer in the dresser and Peter shifts, holding his newspaper back up in front of him. Neither Pepper nor Natasha notice, which makes him think again of how comfortable with each other they are. And then he thinks that most wives probably would notice if another woman was around their naked husband, even if they wouldn’t notice if their almost-adopted kinda-son was right there, too. If Pepper’s trying to keep up appearances of a normal family doing normal family stuff, she’s not doing it right now in this room, and he files that away.

Mr. Stark dresses quickly and efficiently, and Peter doesn’t mean to pay attention, but it’s fascinating, all the layers, the way he flicks his wrists to settle the cuffs, the way he snaps the fancy patterned hose into the garters and then settles them like they have just the right place to rest on his calves, and he knows it down to the quarter-inch. It makes Peter aware of the pajamas still on his own body, smooth and silky and warm. He’s never dressed the way Mr. Stark does today, in all the layers and bright patterns Mr. Stark does, and he’s a little shocked to think he’ll have to start, soon. Pepper had said summer  _ wardrobe _ , not summer  _ suit _ .

Mr. Stark starts chuckling, and Peter realizes he’s staring, and Mr. Stark can see him staring in the mirror above the low dresser. Mr. Stark is watching him with an amused look as he places his cufflinks easily, not watching his own fingers work. He winks at Peter and asks, “What time was that judge getting here, ‘Tasha?”

“Not for hours yet, Tony,” she tells him, voice warm with irritation. “He had a problem fall in his lap this morning, Richards most likely, I swear that Johnny of his needs a jury of judges in his back pocket to keep out of jail. Glad we just have Harley to worry about. And Bucky to screw him down tight when he wobbles,” she mutters darkly.

Mr. Stark hums as he straightens his collar, eyes dark on Peter as he turns, who hasn’t moved, not even to breathe, since that wink. “Well, you call over to Henry, Pepper. You find out about this Gilbreth couple, see if they really did save him so much cabbage. They did, and we snag them for us to turn the same trick for us, I’ll get you something real nice, angel baby.” Mr. Stark smiles at Peter and he takes a shallow breath just to  _ survive _ everything that’s happening to him as Mr. Stark’s eyes warm up with approval, just for him. “But just for having the idea, I think we oughta go get you a sundae before the judge gets here.” He stalks closer to the couches, dapper and clean, and picks up a mug, filling it with the warm coffee in the tootpot. Peter watches how he moves, not one wasted second, and thinks about having his first sundae for  _ breakfast _ .

“Oh, excellent idea, Tony,” praises Pepper, setting aside her paper for a moment and lifting her chin, inviting the man to kiss her. Mr. Stark doesn’t look like a man who passes up too many invitations, thinks Peter, as he smirks and bends at the waist over her. She hums with interest, and that makes Peter squirm a little. Mr. Stark stays bent after the kiss ends, sharing breath with her as she murmurs, “Just the thing to keep his mind off the appointment. My you look nice, Mr. Stark, in that blue Ivy League suit, where  _ do _ you have your things tailored?”

“No idea, Mrs. Stark, I got a girl takes care of all them pesky details for me,” quips Mr. Stark, leaning forward to give her lips a smack before standing and snatching up a mug of coffee. “Well, let’s go, kid, let’s go attempt to get you dressed and hit the road for a sweet treat.”

“Speaking of tailors, your afternoon is mine, Peter,” laughs Pepper. “Harley’s lines are all wrong for you, angel.”

“Thank you, Pepper,” murmurs Natasha, from behind the Police Blotter section. “Harley and the boy’s’ve had him in pajamas all week and I’ve been too busy knocking skulls together and working out our next tour.”

“When you and Clint leaving for Canada?” asks Mr. Stark, sipping his coffee.

“Now that you’re back at the reins,” and she gives him a smile that makes Peter double-take, because it’s  _ grateful _ , “probably this weekend.”

“Thanks for holding down the shop,” Mr. Stark grunts. “It was nice not to come home to an absolute shitshow and hafta dive right in and roll some heads.” Peter feels his breathing speed up because he forgot, with all the smiles and approval, with all the talk of ice cream and tailored suits, that  _ this man _ is the  _ Butcher of New York _ . And Peter just maybe hinted him a way to save some dough. He looks down at his paper, a quick glance, as his stomach turns over. What’s he  _ doing _ here? He doesn’t  _ belong _ here. Why  _ him _ ?

Natasha smiles into her coffee and murmurs, “My pleasure, Tony.”

Peter shoots her a glance, reading what body language signs he can. She looks well rested for the first time he’s ever seen, well-rested and calm and poised. Peter feels a little guilty, because he knows his kidnapping has been one of the weights on her shoulders and he knows Harley doesn’t feel guilty about it  _ at all _ . If he’d just had the courage to run away, run out of that office, skip the whole thing, maybe Natasha wouldn’t have had that worry.  _ Or maybe some other smart guy would be sitting here in silk pajamas sipping sweet coffee _ , whispers a voice in his head. He tosses his head to clear that voice out, but can’t deny it has a point.

Pepper chuckles, “Well, not much pleasure, to hear Clint talk about it last night.”

Natasha snorts. “Well that was before I had at him last night.” The women share a wicked smile. “Made it all up to him, and we’ll be six, maybe seven weeks on the road for this tour, he’ll be ready to come back and have another break when we’re done.”

“Not sure how I’ll do without my number two, six, seven weeks,” Tony says, and both women snort.

“You never even notice me gone, when I’m out on the tours,” snorts Natasha.

“Oh, I notice, devil woman,” smirks Mr. Stark, and Peter realizes they’re flirting, they’re still talking about  _ sex _ as well as  _ business _ , this whole house is crazy, don’t these people think of anything else? “Plenty that needs doing around here doesn’t get done ‘til you get back, and I much prefer my people where I can clap eyes on ‘em without too much work. Telegram’s not quite the same.”

Natasha smiles back at him, sassy and wide, and says, “Won’t leave until Saturday. We can cut rugs until midnight all week.”

“Might should check on the clubs anyway, remind ‘em who’s boss when you’re not around,” teases Mr. Stark, “add it to my calendar, Pep.”

“9 PM until midnight, nightly until Saturday, cutting rugs with devil woman, yes, Mr. Stark, would you prefer pencil or ink,” responds Pepper briskly, sounding like the professional secretaries on the radio dramas Ned listened to religiously. Peter’s eyes about pop outta his head, thinking over everything that means. She says it so serenely, like it’s not her  _ husband  _ and the most dangerous sheila in the world.

“Blood,” quips Natasha, and while Peter notices Pepper wince slightly, Mr. Stark and Natasha burst into light laughter. His stomach turns again. He’s definitely with Pepper on this one, that’s _not_ _funny_.

“But first, my new baby in a suit and some ice cream,” chuckles Mr. Stark fondly, and he spins on one heel, snapping his fingers down low by his side as he walks quickly towards the bathroom.

“Better catch up,” Pepper tells Peter with a teasing grin. “He won’t snap twice, not even if you save him $200 an hour.”

Peter scrambles to follow Mr. Stark back into Harley’s bedroom.

Mr. Stark isn’t quiet as he opens and closes drawers, pulls together a subdued brown Sunday suit with a cut that matches his own out of Harley’s collection of bright clothes. Harley groans from the bed, “Izzit time already?”

“Nah, put your head down, judge won’t be here for hours, sleep it off, kitten,” directs Mr. Stark, with an eye roll at Peter that has him smiling back shyly. Mr. Stark nods at the bathroom and Peter leads the way nervously.

“You shaving yet, kid?” asks Mr. Stark, as he closes the bedroom door behind them. 

Peter shakes his head, “Not much, just a little scrub.”

“Well, let me take a look,” says Mr. Stark, coming close, too close. Peter takes a deep breath and leans back a little, not enough, not enough to throw the other man, just enough to breathe. “The cat’s a little particular on who he lets near his throat with a razor, and he’ll recommend me as a barber any day.” He’s smiling broadly and Peter thinks nervously that Mr. Stark noticed the lean, and likes it for some reason. 

Mr. Stark raises a hand and Peter startles, he doesn’t mean to, he just, there’s something anticipatory in Mr. Stark’s movements, and they’re alone, in the bathroom, in the bathroom where Steve and Harley had stripped Peter and toweled him off. 

“Nobody’s gonna hurt you, angel,” Mr. Stark growls, and it doesn’t sound- when Harley says it, it sounds defiant, and when Steve says it, it sounds coaxing. When Bucky says it, it sounds like a trap. But when Mr. Stark says it, it sounds like a declaration of absolute fact. Peter takes a deep breath and nods, then, even though he can feel lightning sizzle just underneath the surface of his skin, even though he’s not sure he wants to be touched right now, by this man, in this bathroom.

“Yeah, I see whatcha mean by scrub,” comments Mr. Stark, running his fingers around Peter’s chin. Everywhere the fingers aren’t anymore, they leave a trail of sparks, and Peter’s shivering with fear and something else within heartbeats. “Ain’t enough there yet to let ‘er grow and see what we can do with it. I’ll take care of it, you let me.” It’s not a question. Peter nods anyway, like he’d done with the other men who’d been giving him directions all week.

Mr. Stark grabs for Harley’s soap cup and brush, and whips up a foam in seconds, pushing Peter onto the stool by the sink with an elbow. “You sit right there, angel. I like to keep my things nice and neat, like to touch ‘em up, too, and you’re going to let me, baby, you hear that?”

Peter nods, his eyes wide.

“I hear from Bucky you’re good at being quiet and still, so you do that now, you stay quiet and be still,” directs Mr. Stark, brushing the foam all over Peter’s face. Peter lowers his eyelids in agreement. “Good,” croons Mr. Stark. “Just like that, so good for me. Hold still, now, don’t want my hands to slip.”

The shave doesn’t last more than a few minutes, Mr. Stark is working efficiently, running the blade in long, smooth strokes down Peter’s skin. But Peter’s trembling with the effort of not panicking before it’s done, because that’s a razor against his skin, and the man who’s wielding it has personally killed half the toughs in the worst neighborhoods in New York, according to the wagging tongues. He can see the scars on Mr. Stark’s neck and hands, from this angle, from this close distance, and he can’t think of anything but the stories of this man’s savagery, as he tips and tilts his head as those hands direct. There’s no other sound in the bathroom but the rasp of the razor and their breathing, his own fractured and a little frantic, Mr. Stark’s smooth and strong. 

“There now,” says the man, finally, running the water in the sink and rinsing out the cup and the razor. He throws a cloth at Peter, who catches it and fumbles it at first, before wiping his face with slightly shaking hands. “That’s better. Harley letting you scrub your own teeth yet?” Peter nods his head and Mr. Stark bows him over to the sink mockingly. “Get to it, kid, the ice cream’s melting.”

Peter scrambles for the sink, for the cabinet above the sink, digging in and finding his brush. He brushes his teeth, glaring at the sink, feeling incredibly self-conscious as Mr. Stark crosses his arms and just… just  _ watches _ . Peter spits, finally, and swipes at his mouth, collecting a handful of water to rinse and spit again. He straightens as Mr. Stark says, “I hear from Doc Banner you won’t need much dentistry, which is a relief, shelled out more than a pretty penny on that tricky mouth of Hellcat’s, although gotta say, at the rates the girl’s’re charging these days, I practically made a profit in the balance of things.” 

Peter blushes, because he’s seen what that means, he knows, he was  _ in the car _ when Harley, with  _ Steve _ , and Mr. Stark chuckles, “All these colors you light up with, I can see how Bucky couldn’t help himself. We’re both a little bit devils that way,” he confesses to Peter. “Like ‘em squirming just a little bit,” he says, slowly, and Peter’s squirming all right. “Love it,” declares Mr. Stark, putting out a quick hand that startles Peter. “No one’s gonna hurt you, baby,” Mr. Stark repeats, teasing this time, pulling Peter tight to him. “Leastways not in your pajamas in a bathroom,” he teases, his hands running up and down Peter’s back possessively. He leans back and snickers, “Look at you light up again. Don’t like it pointed out when you’re being too uptight?”

Peter shakes his head. He’s not, it’s, the man is a lot to take, a lot more than even Harley, and no one is interrupting to tell him to knock it off, it’s just the two of them here. He feels Mr. Stark’s hands slide down his sides, slip under the waistband of his pants, and he gasps. “Oh, no, baby,” teases Mr. Stark, “You’re mine, this is all mine, we’re signing papers tonight that say daddy can do what he wants, you hear me? You want in, you want all these nice things, well, I want, too, and you’re going to give it to me.” Peter gasps again, as the man slides his pajama pants over his backside and lets them drop to the floor. 

“There’s a good angel, shocked, just the way I like ‘em,” chuckles Mr. Stark. He pulls back a little, hands on Peter’s naked hips, commanding Peter’s gaze as he says, darkly, “Good angels ain’t used to this kind of treatment, are they, baby?”

Peter shakes his head emphatically. He’s _never_ , in his _whole life_ been treated _this way_. He can feel tears rising because he’s positive, sure, that it’s _not_ _right_ , that he shouldn’t be letting it happen. He can’t stop it, though, can’t feel for anything inside him that’ll let him stop it, or try to stop it. There’s nothing there, he’s nothing but trembling, fear, and pressure building deep in the center of his stomach.

“Well, I won’t dirty you up too much, promised Hellcat I’d build up some steam under my lid for him to take care of, and that’s just the way he likes it best, when I’m too wound up to care who’s under me,” Peter gasps as Mr. Stark trails a finger across his backside, tracing circles. “But that doesn’t mean I ain’t laying claim early,” he tells Peter forcefully, dark eyes glaring into Peter’s. “If you’re mine, you’re  _ mine _ , baby boy, and I won’t have you thinking anything but.”

Peter nods, frantically, eyes welling with tears, and Mr. Stark’s smile turns sharp enough to cut. “Good. I thought you’d be good. Steve said you were a smart kid.” At Steve’s name, Peter remembers, remembers the kiss, and he gasps, he can’t help it. He wants Steve here, to tell him it’s okay, to tell him, to make this okay. “Yeah,” agrees Mr. Stark, and it’s like he can see inside Peter’s head when he continues, “he can’t wait, either, but he will. He’s a good man, he knows who eats first at this table.” His hand, trailing circles, suddenly grabs hold of flesh and Peter yelps, slamming his jaw shut, mortified, as Mr. Stark chuckles and releases him. 

“You know how to undo those buttons covering you up?” Mr. Stark says, moving to perch on the stool, shifting Peter by his arms to stand in front of him.

Peter nods, biting his lip in confusion. Of course he knows how to undo buttons. The five year olds at the Home knew how to undo buttons, what grown man doesn’t-

“Good, angel, I want you to undo them for me, nice and slow, let me enjoy it a bit, you undoing them for me. Go ahead and let loose them crocodile tears I can see welling up if you need to,” he says graciously. “But you do it nice and slow, angel.”

Peter takes a breath, thinking of that, his hands flinching. He tries to decide which would be worse, starting at the bottom, where the shirt is covering up his- or starting at the top, where undoing them would bare his- and he flinches as Mr. Stark leans back and presses the heel of one hand into his own crotch, rubbing. Peter’s eyes flinch up to Mr. Stark’s, because he’d rubbed, for the first time, the night before, rubbed, and felt that crest rise, that impossible pressure. Mr. Stark is smirking as he says, “Go on, angel, get started, I’m waiting. Let ‘em lose if you need to.”

Peter nods and as his hands raise to open the top buttons, he realizes he doesn’t really have a choice, even if Mr. Stark had told him not to cry, he’d be doing it, because this is wrong. This is so wrong, trying to slow down his movement, while the other man  _ watches _ and  _ rubs. _ Peter doesn’t feel angelic, he feels dirty, and he thinks that’s what makes the other man rub like that, that Peter’s feeling dirty, but he’s unbuttoning the shirt, button by slow button, anyway. He can feel his chest heave with the force of not sobbing, just being quiet and unbuttoning his shirt for the dark gaze of Mr. Stark, and somehow trying to be quiet makes it even worse, makes his hands tremble. He’s going slow now, just because he’s fumbling the buttons, and he flinches when Mr. Stark sits forward with a huff and says in a rapt voice, “Just like that, Jesus, angel, Harley was right, you’ll give me everything I want, won’t you, crocodile tears and all.” 

His hand lifts out, and Peter flinches, his fingers falling from the last button, and Mr. Stark chuckles, lifting up his chin with one scarred knuckle. “Eyes on mine, angel, for that last one, s’okay you fumble it a little, eyes up here, on mine, wanna see into you while you do it for me.”

Peter nods, a bare tremble, and raises his gaze from the center of the man’s shirt slowly, up to his neck, his chin, his ear, and then, with a gasp, making eye contact. Mr. Stark smiles back, predatory, and orders, “Last button, baby boy.” Peter can’t look down, can’t look away from that dark gaze as his hands fumble along the edge of his shirt and his eyes well up again when Mr. Stark reminds him, “Slowly, not so fast, wanna watch, remember?”

Peter licks his lips, because he can’t breathe, and Mr. Stark groans a little and says, “Yeah, fuck, that was, I know Harley likes it, but that was a damn fool promise to make him. Shoulda said 4th of July. Last button,” he reminds Peter, as Peter hangs on his knuckle and trembles. “Slow.”

Peter’s fingers find the button and trace around it, his chest heaving and tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. Mr. Stark shifts his hand so he can glance down and see what Peter’s doing and Peter squeezes his eyes closed, undoing the button slowly, slowly, with trembling fingers and hearing Mr. Stark’s chuckle as the fabric parts and Peter’s hands fall to his side. “Now that’s a pretty pecker,” praises Mr. Stark, and Peter flinches from those words, what they mean, what the man can  _ see,  _ and how he’s looking, like it belongs to him, like it’s just one more thing that’s his. “Did Harley get a good look at that in the Home or did he just hope for the best?”

Peter shakes his head because he can’t say anything, he’s trying so hard not to sob, not to beg the man to stop looking, trying not to twist off the man’s knuckles and cover himself up.

“Answer me,” growls Mr. Stark, and his knuckle shifts into a pinch of Peter’s chin, a slight shake that hints at further coercion if necessary. Peter’s eyes fly open, scared, and he whimpers, “N-no, Mr. Stark, had my pants on until the b-bath. Made ‘em t-turn around.”

“Did you?” teases Mr. Stark, and Peter wonders if he should rephrase, because he hadn’t actually made anyone do anything, he can’t, he can’t even make Mr. Stark stop looking. “Such a shy angel, never had one of them before, think I like it. Well, I’ll get this shaved later, too, ask Bucky to do it, he’ll like that, be a treat for him. I don’t need my angel baby looking so scrubby, leastways not yet, but-“ he overrides Peter’s moan at these statements, “-but we got ice cream waiting, I promised you a sundae, and you been so good for me, doing just what I asked, even crying them crocodile tears, I’ll make sure you get one covered in rum cherries, angel.” 

He releases Peter’s chin, and Peter falls forward, gasping air. “Just breathe a bit,” chuckles Mr. Stark, sliding the pajama shirt off Peter’s shoulders. “God, Harley and Tasha make me work for gasps and splutters like that and you just give ‘em to me for having, baby boy, never seen anything like you before.”

Peter flushes at the comparison, flushes that he’s standing in front of the other man fully nude now, flushes with all the stress of being quiet and smart for Mr. Stark. When his breathing is better under control, Mr. Stark says, “You be my doll, baby. Let me dress you up, take you out. You be quiet and good while I work. Can’t be seen with less than the best, so you’re gonna let me make you the best, hear?”

Peter nods, hanging on the words. Mr. Stark chuckles, “Yeah, Harley said you get t’where you’ll agree to anything, lose all your senses. I love it, never seen anything like it. You scared, baby doll?”

Peter has no idea how to answer that question so he decides to go with honesty. “S-some, Mr. S-Stark,” he admits. Some, but not all, says the fire just under his skin. Some but not all.

“You should be,” Mr. Stark tells him bluntly, and the way he pushes forward into Peter’s space makes Peter’s heart thump wildly. “I’m not a tame creature, Peter, and I’m not nice like you. Bucky said he warned you about crying wolf around here, but I’m the biggest and baddest one, even if I dress up in sheepskin most days. Don’t go forgetting it, Peter,” he warns, voice rough. Peter shakes his head, swallowing, and whispers, “No, sir, Mr. Stark. I won’t.”

“Yeah, you’re an angel, I love it, how Harley found you in a Home is beyond belief,” scoffs Mr. Stark. “You was molded for me, pristine feathers and all. Here throw these on, nice and slow, just like with them buttons, angel.” He tosses Peter the pair of drawers and then sits back, palming his crotch again, all dark glances and slow strokes.

Peter shivers, but bends, sliding Harley’s underclothes up over his hips, twitching them into place. Mr. Stark makes a small pained noise and slips them down a bare quarter-inch, all the way around, with his fast fingers. “Just like that, doll,” he says, and then he grabs the hose and lifts Peter’s left foot. “Hey, doc said these were healed up or what?” he asks Peter, losing all of the dark thunder in his expression, just interested in the response. Peter reels for a second and then responds, “Mostly, he said that Harley’s slippers wouldn’t hurt me any. They’re just blisters,” he says helplessly, because maybe Mr. Stark will understand. “Not sure why I needed a doc in the first place.”

“Ah,” sighs Mr. Stark, fastening on the garters, twitching them into place as efficiently as he’d done his own, sliding the hose up the foot he’s gripping. “Well, that’d be Harley. Boy’s a little cracked, if you hadn’t noticed. Doesn’t mind taking some damage, but Steve said he wouldn’t shut up about your feet all that first night. Some was worrying about how the matron might’ve hurt you in other ways, ways he couldn’t protect you from now, years past. And some was worrying about how you’re his responsibility now, which is new thinking on Harley and bound to be a bit twitchy. Might want to take that into account, how your big brother’s gonna feel if you get hurt, in your future calculations. Be smart.”

If Peter never hears those instructions again, it’ll be too soon, he thinks, sighing as silently as he can.

Mr. Stark chuckles and hands him some pants. “Well, the nice mood’s busted now, but I’m getting hungry for ice cream, anyway. Scoot into them, and I’ll help you on with the shirt. You can borrow a pair of my links today, soon as we’ve got you in the shirt so’s the ladies don’t faint. Pepper’s gonna wanna approve you before going out anyway.” 

Peter skims the pants up to his waist as Mr. Stark adds, “And Tasha was saying at the club last night as how she might wanna nibble a bit after the boys are done chewing.” 

His smile at Peter’s sudden hiss of breath is wide and innocent and somehow  _ still teasing _ . “Oh, you made a bad first impression, had her thinking of Harley and all the trouble he brought with him those first few weeks, but then you were so docile and gentle, think it won her over.” 

He laughs at Peter’s expression and slides the undershirt over Peter’s head, making Peter think of all the littles he helped dress every morning back at the Home. He holds out the shirt for Peter to slide his arms into, settling on Peter’s shoulders with a sound of disappointment. “Gotta feed you up, son, you’re looking awful twiglike. Could snap in a harsh wind. Although,” he admits, “It does appeal a little, snapping you.” Peter shivers, thinking,  _ Butcher of New York _ , and Mr. Stark chuckles, “Yeah, and that too, that’s appealing, too. Where have you been, little Peter Stark? These past few years, you been sitting just a spit from here, waiting on Harley? Unbelievable.”

Peter shakes his head because he still doesn’t understand, no one can answer  _ why him _ in a way that makes sense and lays it all out.

“Here, leave off the jacket, gotta put the links on anyway, easier without it. You carry it, though, Pep’ll like that.” Mr. Stark folds the jacket over Peter’s arm and whispers exaggeratedly, “Now tiptoe, if you can, angel, let’s let the hellcat doze some more.”

They soft foot through Harley’s bedroom, back through the pink and gold bathroom, Mr. Stark pretending to close the door with exaggerated care and relief when it makes no noise. He whirls immediately and calls, “Pep, you still in?” Peter jumps because he wasn’t expecting the sudden noise and his nerves feel stretched to the fraying point. Mr. Stark grabs his bicep and hauls him along behind him as Pepper calls, “Yes, Tony, just catching up with Steve.”

Mr. Stark says, “Excellent, just the man I was headed to next. Hey, Happy, hoof down to Mrs. Friday, have her check with the staff and find me a pair of shoes for this kid, not going to have him in slippers at the treat parlor, for chrissake.”

“Tony,” admonishes Pepper softly. 

“Sorry,” Mr. Stark says immediately, shamefaced, ducking his head and slotting her a penitent look. Peter’s brain about busts, looking at the two of them, cracked clean in two. The Sheik of the Eastern Seaboard, hanging his head for his wife’s quiet, gentle, one-word correction. Peter’d never met the man two weeks ago and he wouldn’t have believed it. Having met the man, it’s even more impossible.

“It’s the one thing I ask,” Pepper says softly. Mr. Stark twitches like she’s hit him and he says, “I know, I know, Pep, sorry, it slipped, I slipped, I won’t.”

“Thank you, Tony,” she says, and she believes him, Peter thinks. Just like that. Believes he won’t do, whatever he did. Swear? Peter thinks wildly. He’s not allowed to  _ swear _ ? “Well, you look nice, Peter,” she comments brightly, like the whole world hasn’t been shaken from its right axis. 

“Thank you, ma’am,” he responds politely.

“You do,” says Natasha, sipping her coffee, her feet in Steve’s lap. Steve’s rubbing them absently, and the look he gives Peter makes Peter swallow until he glances at Natasha and then he shivers. Her gaze is speculative, interested, and he squirms under it. “Even if the cut’s a little too big yet.”

“Been trying to feed him up,” Steve tells her defensively, “steak and liver and all the sweets he’ll eat, extra cream in his coffee.”

She smiles at him and kisses his cheek. “I know you have, Cap, I have been watching.” Her thick accent makes it clear that she’s been watching all of everything and Peter shuffles his feet against the carpet, distinctly uncomfortable. Mr. Stark shows him how to slide cufflinks through his shirt sleeves mostly by doing it and walking away, grabbing himself another few sips of coffee.

Happy returns with a basket full of shoes. “One of these should fit, we worked down from Harley’s size, since we know those’re too big.”

“Sit, Peter,” laughs Mr. Stark, eyes twinkling. “You play Cinderella, let Happy be the prince for once.” Happy and Peter roll their eyes at the same time and then glance at each other in recognition of an  _ ally _ . Peter sits heavily in the red and gold armchair in front of Happy and reaches in the basket for a shoe, holding it up to his foot as Happy reaches for a different pair and holds one up to Peter’s other foot. 

Eventually, they find two pair that will fit, and Mr. Stark declares that the dark brown ones will work better than the black. Happy huffs a sigh of annoyance and hauls the basket down to what will probably be twelve very relieved servants and one that’ll be a little put out, thinks Peter, shaking his head at putting on second-hand borrowed shoes in the center of the Stark Empire on his adoption day. It fits, somehow, just crazy enough to fit this crazy place and all the crazy people inside.

“C’mon, kid, ice cream,” reminds Mr. Stark, as Peter laces up the short boots. “Stand up. There, Pep, we pass muster?” He shuffles his feet impatiently while Peter slides into his jacket, and then throws an arm around Peter’s shoulders, obviously mugging for Pepper’s approval.

She nods, her eyes shining brightly and mouth twitching in a smile. “Good enough for government work, get outta here, Mr. Stark.”

“Miss me, Mrs. Stark,” he tells her.

“Always,” she promises. He kisses her head in passing as he snaps his fingers, once. Peter jumps forward, making Steve and Natasha chuckle as he scrambles to catch up.

“Got him t’ heel already,” comments Steve. 

Natasha agrees, “Fast learner,” just at the edge of Peter’s hearing as they quit the room.

Peter thinks the ice cream sundae waiting for him had better have dozens of cherries, to be worth all this humiliation.

  
  


~~~

He’s not disappointed, when it finally gets to their table and Mr. Stark laughs at his expression. “Happy welcome to the family day, Peter, you and your good ideas,” teases Mr. Stark, over his own mountain of ice cream and toppings. His smile is pleased and proud and in it Peter reads all kinds of things, things about books and boardrooms as well as things about bathrooms and buttons. He ducks his head, blushing, and takes his first bites. The cold is shocking, almost painfully so in the late June heat of the city, and the sheer sweetness is unexpected.

“In case you were still wondering,” Mr. Stark tells him, dipping his spoon deep in the glass to chase the hot fudge he ordered on his, “what I need Peter for that I can’t get from Hellcat, we can start with  _ this _ . His teeth were bad, and he doesn’t like ice cream sundaes on account of they hurt too much.” The memory of the bathroom is twinkling in his eye, too, it must be, thinks Peter, because the man twists one of the buttons on his shirtfront and smirks as he takes his next bite.

Peter looks up at him, mouth full of sweetness and chill, in his borrowed suit and secondhand shoes. He tells the man solemnly, “I like ice cream sundaes. You can take me for ice cream sundaes any time, Mr. Stark.” He’s not just talking about the sundae, he suddenly realizes, and feels a blush creep up his neck as he decides to ignore the fact that  _ he’s not just talking about the sundaes _ in favor of digging in.

“Yeah,” says Mr. Stark, his eyes twinkling, talking around the spoon in his mouth, “I figured, Peter Stark. I figured.”

Peter ignores the other man’s continuing chuckles as Peter polishes off the first ice cream sundae he’s ever been bought. It’s good, it’s sweet, and it’s worth a lot of blushing, Peter figures. He could get used to ice cream sundaes. He slants Mr. Stark a glance from under his lashes, watching the man assess where to stick his spoon next to get the maximum amount of hot fudge, and licks his spoon. Peter figures tentatively, he could get used to a lot of things.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's a link to the song in the title, if you want it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oQvnAlduljQ
> 
> You can absolutely meet me in the comments section with ideas for future scenes and chapters in this AU. It's definitely very work-in-progress.


End file.
